


Domestic Enemies

by Hummingbird1759



Series: Fear-verse [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, BAMF John, Crime Fighting, Drunk John, Gen, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Post Reichenbach, Suspense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-16
Updated: 2013-07-04
Packaged: 2017-12-15 04:30:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 19,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/845344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hummingbird1759/pseuds/Hummingbird1759
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While Sherlock is abroad taking down Moriarty's web, John and Mycroft are at home fighting a different kind of war.  No slash!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Somebody Told Me You Were Doing OK...

**Author's Note:**

> This was the first Sherlock story I ever wrote. Since this month makes one year of reading fanfic for me, I decided to revise and repost it here. "Domestic Enemies" takes place in the same universe as the stories about Sherlock and Mycroft's greatest fears, but you don't need to have read those stories to understand this one.
> 
> This story was inspired by this fanart: http://bakerstreetbabes.tumblr.com/post/26350211698/deduction019-ishipjohnlock247
> 
> As always, I don't own these characters, Moffat/Gatiss and Conan Doyle do.

John Watson wasn’t sure what day it was.  He hadn’t done a very good job keeping track of time lately, what with his best friend taking a swan dive off of St. Bart’s and all.  Not that he’d had any reason to keep track of time since he got sacked.  No job, no cases – even the reporters left him alone after those scandalous photos of Duchess Catherine surfaced.

He did, however, have reasons to drink, and since his sacking he drank more than he had since he was at Bart’s.  The trouble was that now he couldn’t drink the way he did as a young man.  At 20, he had been the life of the party, the bloke who after a few beers laughed at everything he saw and made everyone else laugh with him.  Now he was the bloke who cried at everything he saw and made everyone else disgusted with him.  In a perverse way, he was glad Sherlock wasn’t there to see him like this.

A knock at the door jolted John out of his reverie.  It was probably Mrs. Hudson again, coming by to fuss over him and try vainly to get him to eat. At least she’d never evict him, which was the only reason he’d returned to 221B so soon.  He ambled to the door and clumsily undid the locks.  _(Let’s get this overwith.)_

The woman at the door was not his elderly landlady but a young, dark-haired woman wearing an impeccably tailored suit, Dolce & Gabbana sunglasses tucked in her front pocket.  John’s alcohol-addled brain struggled to remember who she was and how he knew her. 

“Anthea?”

“Yes. May I come in?”  She winced at John’s musk of cheap whiskey, old Chinese takeaway, and sweat.

John gracelessly shut the door and slurred, “So, to what do I owe the prid- prit- uh, honour?”

“Mr. Holmes instructed me to give you this.”  She held out a large brown paper bag.  “It’s been at the cleaners.  I took it out of the plastic so that it would be less conspicuous.”

John opened the bag and struggled to focus his eyes on the object inside.  Tentatively reaching in, he felt something very familiar, rugged and scratchy outside, but a soft lining. He gulped as he pulled the object out of the bag and unfurled it in front of him.

A long black coat.

 _Sherlock’s_ coat.

John stared dumbly for a long minute.

“Mr. Holmes thought his brother would want you to have it.”

“Th-thank you,” John stammered, his voice barely above a whisper.  “T-tell him I said ‘thank you.’”

Anthea nodded and surveyed the flat once more before excusing herself.  John watched her go, texting as she went down the stairs and into her car.   Still holding the coat, he staggered backwards onto the couch.  He’d not cried since the funeral, not since he asked Sherlock for one more miracle.  As he clung to the coat, the dam holding back his tears developed a leak, which then grew into a fissure, and then the dam was no more.  John sobbed from his guts, soaking the coat’s collar in the process.  The last thing he remembered was curling up on the couch, Sherlock’s coat draped over him.

 


	2. ...But Somehow, I Guess They Were Wrong

 

As he awoke the next morning, John was dimly aware of a man standing over him.  He tried to stir but he felt as if his head was in a vise and his limbs were made of lead.  His mouth tasted like he’d been chewing on sweaty socks all night.

“Interesting choice of blanket,” a posh voice sniffed.

_(Bloody hell.)_ John wondered how Mycroft got in, but then he remembered he was dealing with Mycroft Holmes and stopped wondering.  With a Herculean effort, John dragged himself into a sitting position, blinking against the bright sun shining through the windows.  “Good morning to you too,” he grumbled.

“Anthea told me of the state you were in yesterday afternoon.  I thought I should come and see for myself.”  Mycroft pursed his lips.  “Drunkenness does not become you, Doctor Watson.”

“That isn’t really the point,” he mumbled. He’d had a lot of hangovers in the last few days – weeks? – but this was the Queen Mother of them all.  He’d give anything for a cup of tea and 400 mg of ibuprofen right now.

As if reading his mind, Mycroft brought a cup of tea from the kitchen and laid two ibuprofen tablets next to it on the coffee table.  Still towering over John, he said,  “Whatever the purpose of your nightly… activities, I suggest you cease and desist immediately.  It will undoubtedly affect your job performance.”

John swallowed the pills and then rubbed his throbbing temples.  “Mycroft, what are you talking about?  You bloody well know I’ve been sacked!”  _(The bastard probably knew there was a plan to sack me before I did.)_

“I’m afraid you were let go due to your association with my brother.  The people responsible for sacking you wish it to be known that they have just been sacked.  Of course, I doubt you’d want to go back to the surgery after all this, but I’ve heard of another job that might interest you,” Mycroft said evenly.

John sighed. Mycroft was taking pity on him and he wouldn’t leave until John agreed to allow him to pull some strings and get him this job, whatever it was. Few people on Earth were more stubborn than the Holmeses when they had a mission to carry out.  “All right, Mycroft, what’s the job?”

“It’s in the Emergency & Trauma Centre at Royal London Hospital.  Accidents, stabbings, shootings … it would be perfect for a man who misses the war.”

John rolled his eyes. “And I suppose you’ll pull some strings and get me pity-hired right away.”

“No.”

“No?”

Mycroft frowned and replied icily, “I have a reputation to maintain, Doctor Watson.  I cannot recommend anyone who clearly is more interested in drinking himself _into_ his grave than keeping his patients _out_ of theirs.  However, if you can force yourself to stop all this,” he nodded in the direction of John’s numerous liquor bottles, “I can perhaps see to it that position stays open long enough for you to apply.”

John spat, “Since when do you care about me?  You just need to run someone’s life, and since Sherlock’s finally escaped your grasp, the lucky bastard, you’ve settled for me.  Sod that!  I was his experiment, but I won’t be yours!”

Mycroft lifted John up by his collar, dangled the shorter man in the air and then gave him a brief but forceful shake.  “ _Never_ speak of my baby brother that way again,” Mycroft said in a deadly tone that John didn’t even know he was capable of using.  John gave him a frightened nod.

Unceremoniously, Mycroft released John and dropped him back on the couch.  John looked at the floor, chastened.  “I’m sorry,” he murmured.

Mycroft cleared his throat and said softly, “In his will, my brother instructed me to continue paying his share of the rent so that you could remain at 221B. He would be disappointed in me if I turned a blind eye while his best friend destroyed himself.”  The flicker of vulnerability passed and Mycroft’s face took on a disapproving glare.  “He would also be disappointed in _you_.”

John flushed.  _(How does Mycroft bloody Holmes wind up on the moral high ground?)_

Still glaring at John, Mycroft said, “I shall return tomorrow, Doctor Watson.  We have much more to discuss.  In the meantime, pull yourself together and start acting in a manner befitting a soldier!”

As Mycroft turned to leave, something pricked the back of John’s mind.  “Mycroft… did you actually quote Monty Python earlier?”

Mycroft sniffed, “A diplomat needs to establish a rapport with foreigners, and it appears that those ridiculous men are Britain’s most popular export.”  With that, he sauntered out, twirling his umbrella.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I doubt Mycroft actually enjoys Monty Python (or anything else, save perhaps his umbrella) but he’s probably seen the movies once so that he can understand what all his diplomatic colleagues are talking about. 
> 
> The titles of chapters 1 and 2 come from the Big Country song “Whistles the Wind.”


	3. Befitting a Soldier

Mrs. Hudson shook her head as she watched Mycroft leave.  She hadn’t heard what he said to John, but she knew how brusque he could be, and John was fragile right now.  He was so lost without Sherlock, and then two days after the funeral, he’d been sacked!  It was indecent! In the week and a half since he lost his job, he’d hardly spoken, hardly eaten, and only left the flat to fetch more liquor.  She decided she should check on the doctor.

As she started up the stairs, she heard a sound that took her by surprise: for the first time in several days, the shower was running in 221B.  The old lady smiled quietly to herself and went back downstairs.   John Watson was ready to rejoin the land of the living, and Mrs. Hudson could think of no better way to welcome him back than tea and scones.

By the time the tea and scones were prepared, the shower had turned off and she figured that John had had ample time to get dressed.  Finding 221B still unlocked, she called out to John as she entered.  “John!  I brought breakfast!”

“I’m in the kitchen, Mrs. Hudson!”

The old lady was dumbstruck by what she saw. Twenty-four hours ago, John Watson had looked at her with bloodshot eyes and been wearing the same clothes for three days.  Now he looked like a new man: clean jeans, a tucked in button-down (ironed, even!), and… oh no.  Was he holding a bottle of vodka?

John watched his landlady’s expression change from horror to relief as he said, “I was just pouring these out.”

“Let me help,” she said.  She gently placed the tray on the kitchen table and then rushed over to John, kissing him on the cheek.  John smiled in spite of himself.

With the liquor gone, the two of them sat down at the kitchen table.  John’s stomach rebelled a bit against the scones, but nothing had ever tasted as good as that tea.  John explained the challenge Mycroft had issued him, and the opening at Royal London Hospital.

“Are you going to apply?”

John pondered it for a moment.  “Yes.  Without, er, the cases I’ve not got much to do, and it’ll be good to feel useful again.”

“Good.  Besides, you can’t depend on your landlady’s kindness forever,” she said with a wink.

After Mrs. Hudson left, John updated his CV and sent both printed and electronic copies to the contact on Royal London Hospital’s website.  Then he cleaned the flat from top to bottom.  Molly Hooper had taken most of Sherlock’s experiments after the funeral, bless her, but there were still papers and equipment to store, not to mention the detritus that had accumulated while John had been too drunk to see it.

And then there was the coat, sprawled out on the couch almost the way Sherlock himself used to. Where could John put it?  Not Sherlock’s room; he still couldn’t handle the thought of going in there.  The coat rack?  Seemed obvious, but visitors might be unnerved by the presence of a dead man’s coat.  _(My bedroom?_   _Well, it’s not as if I’ll be having a woman up there any time soon… and if I do, I can hide it before she comes over.)_   John carried the coat upstairs and gently hung it on the hook inside his closet door.

As promised, Mycroft returned to 221B the following morning.  He raised his eyebrow slightly at the sight of John sitting at the kitchen table, eating scrambled eggs and drinking out of a teacup that actually contained tea.

“My, what a difference a day makes,” Mycroft said smugly.

John smirked. “Nice to see you too, Mycroft.  Eggs?”  John gestured to the frying pan. Halfway through cooking, John realized he’d cracked enough eggs for two.

“No thank you, watching my cholesterol,” Mycroft said, taking a seat across from John.

John imagined Sherlock making a cutting reply and had to stifle a smile.  “Yesterday you said we had more to discuss.  Exactly what are you referring to?”

Mycroft retrieved a stack of papers and several flash drives from his briefcase.  “This,” he said, placing the items on the kitchen table.  “These files contain all the information we have on Moriarty, ‘Rich Brook,’ and Kitty Riley.”  Mycroft spat out the last name as if it were poison.  “I believe that with a thorough examination of the files, we can clear my brother’s name.”

The doctor blinked.  “And you’re entrusting this to me?  I want him cleared just as badly as you do, but I would think you’d prefer to do this yourself.  Or assign Anthea or one of your other well-dressed minions.”

The diplomat inhaled sharply and frowned. “If I were to attempt this on my own, it would be too obvious – both to my superiors and to anyone with suspicions of Sherlock.  My ‘minions’ are most trustworthy in issues of national security, but I prefer not to entangle them in my family affairs.  Furthermore, as my brother’s assistant you have access to all his case files in addition to this data.  You alone have all the pieces of the puzzle, and you alone can put it together.”

John surveyed everything Mycroft had given him.  _(Several hundred pages, plus_ _5 flash drives holding 20 GB each… this is going to take awhile.)_

“Fear not, John,” Mycroft said, taking in the shorter man’s expression.  “While my brother may have been your master in intelligence, in the area of tenacity, you are at least his equal.”

With that, he sauntered out.  Still picking at his eggs, John opened the first of Mycroft’s files.


	4. Here Kitty, Kitty...

John dragged himself up the steps of 221B on a blustery fall Tuesday night.  He’d just come off 12 hours at the hospital, during which time he’d seen a teenager who’d been stabbed, two victims of child abuse, one man in cardiac arrest, and too many people who were looking for a narcotic fix and should have known better than to ask John Hamish Watson to provide it.  _(Can’t believe they all fell for the old “norMAL saLINE" trick.)_

After showering and changing into his pyjamas, John rummaged through the refrigerator for something edible.  Settling on some old curry takeaway, he plopped himself on the couch.  After inhaling his food, he picked up one of Mycroft’s files from the coffee table.  This one concerned Kitty Riley, the journalist who’d been instrumental in Sherlock’s downfall.

Before Kitty started at her current job, she’d been working for a smaller paper in Sussex and abruptly left.  At first blush, this was nothing unusual; of course an ambitious young woman like her would snap up the opportunity to move to London.  But Mycroft’s people had uncovered something rather interesting: Kitty last appeared in the masthead of the Sussex paper on October 2, 2011.  She was not listed as staff for the London paper – either in print or online - until January 30, 2012.  The gap of four months was not represented on Kitty’s resume, which Mycroft had kindly provided.

John got out his laptop and found the Sussex paper’s website, then began reading the entire archives.  There were oblique references to “events of which no more need be said” but little else for John to go on.  _(This paper probably wouldn’t care to draw attention to misconduct by one of its employees, but another paper would pounce on it.)_ At that moment, a large yawn escaped his lips.  Glancing at the corner of his computer screen, he saw that it was 1 AM and he’d been awake for nearly 20 hours.  John closed the laptop and went to his bedroom. As he did every night, he stroked Sherlock’s coat and murmured, “I’ll solve the puzzle.  I promise.”

Wednesday was John’s day off and he spent it buried in the archives of the newspapers from three large towns closest to Kitty Riley's former employer: Eastbourne, Crawley, and Portsmouth.  After interminable hours of reading about garden parties and society balls and local rugby leagues, John finally found something in the Portsmouth paper.

 

 

PLAGIARISM SCANDAL IN BRIGHTON

_Kitty Riley, reporter at the Brighton Daily News, has been sacked after allegedly_ _plagiarizing a story about_

_Parliament’s recent debate over farm subsidiaries. Riley denies the accusations and claims the article is original..._

 

John’s mouth dropped open in surprise and he nearly cackled with glee.  _(I’ve got her now!)_

His triumph was short-lived, however.  What if Kitty’s current employer had hired her despite the plagiarism charge?  _(She’s a relatively good actress and easy on the eyes.  She could’ve convinced some oversexed, middle-aged hiring manager that she deserved another chance.)_   Proving that Kitty plagiarized in the past was not enough.  The only way to truly punish her was to catch her repeating her mistake.

In order to determine whether Kitty was plagiarizing, he needed to know what her original work was like.  He spent the rest of the afternoon reading her work from the Brighton paper, including the plagiarized article.   Then he read every article she’d published at the London paper (even the one about Sherlock, which made him nauseated).

Four articles she’d published after Sherlock’s death jumped out at him.  Something was not quite right about them; much of the words sounded like Kitty’s writing but there was more than a little of someone else’s writing too.

One article began, “Ronald Reagan, known to many as The Great Communicator…” 

_(That’s a very American turn of phrase.  In fact, there are a few others in this story.  Kitty’s lived in Britain her entire life; why would she use these expressions?)_

A quote in another article caught his eye.  “One local woman said, ‘I don’t mind paying more for fair trade goods.  I think the person who makes my trainers should make a decent living.”  The same quotation appeared in another paper, with “tennis shoes” instead of  “trainers”, but in both articles, the woman's first and last names were the same.

Before long, it became clear that Kitty had copied large sections of the articles from small papers in Portland, Maine and Pensacola, Florida.   He took out a yellow highlighter and marked the sections that were identical, then sent a text.

_Found something you should see. Come to Baker St when convenient. – JW_

_In a meeting until 7 PM. Will come immediately after. – MH_

When Mycroft arrived, John explained what he’d found and how.  “This could not only end her career, it might get people to reconsider what she said about Sherlock!  I can’t wait to see the look on her face when I show her this!”

Mycroft scanned the material, then closing the file, folded his hands and said, “I’m afraid you cannot be the one to bring this to light.”

The doctor gaped.  “What do you mean? I found it!”

“Yes, and excellent work.  But if you accuse the woman who discredited Sherlock of plagiarism, people will think you are merely avenging your beloved...”

“For God’s sake, we were _not_ a couple!” John interjected, throwing up his hands.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “My brother could never have been part of a couple. But the fact remains that you are too close to this case to break the news.  However, I’m certain I can find someone who is _not_ emotionally invested in the case to bring this to the attention of Ms. Riley’s superiors.”

John was taken aback by the grin on the elder Holmes’ face. It reminded him of a shark ready to devour its prey.  _(One more reason to stay on his good side, as if I needed another.)_   He handed the evidence over to Mycroft, who then excused himself.  It might have been his imagination, but Mycroft seemed to twirl his umbrella a little more exuberantly than usual.

The next day was a work day, and as usual, John avoided all media outlets before his shift.  _(Current events are a distraction – especially_ these _current events.)_  As he walked into the break room for lunch, he noticed a clutch of staff gazing at the television.

One of the nurses called, “Oi! Dr. Watson! Come see this!”

“See what?” John made his way through the crowd to the break room telly, juggling two slices of pizza and a soda.

The nurse crowed, “That reporter who said your boyfriend was a fake got sacked for plagiarizing!”

John snorted, “He wasn’t my boyf – what?  Sacked?”

“Yeah.  Copying off American papers – can you imagine?”

“What goes around comes around,” he said with a shrug, then found an empty seat and began devouring his lunch.


	5. Texts From Last Night

On a late September Friday, Mycroft was working late, as he had almost every weekday since Sherlock jumped.  The diplomat had everyone convinced that he was bereft at the loss of the last member of his immediate family and had chosen to distract himself with work.  Even Anthea worried about him, and if he was the Ice King, she was the Ice Princess.   _(At least they've all learned to keep mum now.  At first all the plaintive "I'm so sorry" was suffocating.)_

As he read the latest intelligence on Iran, a phone vibrated with an incoming text.  This wasn’t Mycroft’s top-of-the-line Blackberry, but a prepaid phone he’d bought to contact one person.

_The yellow house is empty. – S_

_Good. Sending painters over now. – M_

He’d waited a month for this news and the chance to text his brother again.  Communicating while he was on assignment was too risky. They only spoke when he’d finished one assignment and was ready for the next, and they’d developed a code in case either of their phones was discovered.  The text from Sherlock meant that he had just eliminated Moriarty’s agents in Ho Chi Minh City.  Mycroft sent a few quick texts, dispatching agents to fetch Sherlock at the rendezvous point and scuttle him off to Beijing.  With each city, the criminals got more dangerous and more powerful, and Sherlock would take them out one by one until the threats to John, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade were all neutralized.

_How is he? – S_

_Busy. Fishing’s picked up. – M_  

_Caught anything? – S_

_Only the minnow. – M_

_Right.  Has he had any dates? – S_

_No. – M_

_Working? – S_

_Too much. I’m looking after him for you. – M_

_Do I detect a trace of sentiment? I thought that was a defect found in the losing side. – S_

_Without you, what more do I have to lose? – M_

_At least 10 kg. – S_

Mycroft scowled and put his phone away.  Sherlock never ceased to delight in the fact that he’d inherited the Holmes metabolism while Mycroft took after their mother, who always said that she gained weight merely by looking at chocolate.   Despite the 8000 miles separating them, Mycroft could swear he heard Sherlock laughing.


	6. Gonna Set it Straight

One week after Kitty Riley was sacked, John sat at the desk typing in his clumsy, two-fingered style.  When he heard someone coming up the steps, his soldier’s instincts kicked in.  _(Definitely a man, by the heaviness of the tread… I’m not expecting anybody and Mrs. Hudson is out.  Could be trouble.)_   He reached into his waistband for his gun, and then the door opened.

“Blogging again?” Mycroft said, leaning his umbrella.

John shouted, “Mother of Jaysus!  I almost pulled my gun on you!  Don’t you ever knock?” 

The older man arched an eyebrow. “Didn’t you receive my texts?  I sent one last night and another while I was en route.”

“Texts… oh shit.  I’m sorry, Mycroft, when I left work last night my phone’s battery was dead.  I thought I plugged it in but I was so tired I must have forgotten. Good job I have a spare, eh?” He said, retrieving it from the desk drawer.

_(Interesting_. _)_ It was extremely unlike John to allow his mobile to go dead, but Mycroft chose not to comment on it.

The ex-soldier continued,  “Yes, I’m blogging.  Have you seen the London gossip blogs lately? A lot of people have posted about Kitty and wondered what I think of all this.  Sherlock’s supporters are starting to come out of the woodwork; he’s even been trending on Twitter.”

Mycroft spun his umbrella. “So you’re going to start updating your blog again?”

“Not regularly.  I’ve only written one post and I doubt I’ll write any more.  I think my efforts to clear Sherlock are best kept under wraps.”

The diplomat nodded minutely. “I agree that discretion is in order.  May I see what you’ve written?”

“Of course.”  John turned the laptop around so that it faced Mycroft.

_2 nd October_

_Hello everyone.  It’s been a few months since I updated, and honestly, I never thought I’d update again. Nothing happened to me before I met Sherlock and nothing happens to me now that he’s gone.  I just wanted to tell everyone that I have been overwhelmed by all the support Sherlock has received in the last few days. I’ve read your blog posts and your tweets and I’m starting to make a dent in my e-mail.  (Please be patient about replies – I’m practicing medicine again and work has me very busy.)_

_Sherlock Holmes was my best friend, and I’m grateful to everyone who believes in him._

 

The corners of the diplomat's mouth turned up.  “Well done, John.  You’ve finally learned to say just enough.”

“Thank you, but I’m sure you didn’t come here just to damn me with faint praise,” the ex-soldier said, folding his arms.

“Indeed.  I would like to know your next course of action now that Miss Riley is no longer a concern.”

“I’ve been researching her sources for the article on Rich Brook.  I’m going to interview two of them later today: David Hamilton, who supposedly wrote one of the press clippings in Brook’s portfolio and Angela White, one of the producers for _The Storyteller_ , the children’s show that he was allegedly the star of.”

“Very good.  I must warn you, John, this will not be as easy as discrediting Miss Riley.  Riley was naïve and sloppy; Moriarty was ruthless and had a meticulous attention to detail.  His associates are unlikely to be pushovers,” Mycroft said, his eyes pinning John to his chair.

John returned the taller man’s icy stare. “Moriarty once covered me in semtex.  I have a pretty good idea of who I’m dealing with.”

“Fine,” the posh man said imperiously.  “Good luck, John.”  With that, he waltzed out.

 

* * *

 

Across town, Moriarty’s successor was livid.  The 6’4” tall Sebastian Moran was practically doubled over to bellow in his henchman’s face.  “Your plan was _what?_ ”

The henchman, a slender, bespectacled fellow, stammered, “Sabotage Watson’s phone so that he wouldn’t know Mycroft was coming!  Th-then Mycroft would sneak in, Watson w-wouldn’t know it was him, and since Watson has PTSD he’d shoot him, and then he’d f-feel so guilty he’d…”

“He’d just roll over and play _DEAD_?”  Moran screamed.

“Something like that,” the smaller man said, looking much like child who’d been caught without his homework.

Moran growled, “Then explain to me why Mycroft Holmes is still alive and John Watson is now on his way to interview one of our associates!”

“Th-the best laid plans of mice and men…” the little man began.

Moran punched him with a gigantic fist, knocking his underling out cold.  At times like this, he really missed Jim.  Sure, the man was a diva who pranced about in designer suits and hogged all the glory while his underlings did the scut work, and yes, he was an absolute maniac; but he was _creative!_ This situation would have been no trouble for Jim.  He imagined Jim now, in whichever version of the afterlife he occupied, chanting, “That’s why I ran the sho-ow, Sebby!  I was the brains, you were just the muscle!”

Moran snarled under his breath. This was a mere setback.  Time to do damage control and remind Hamilton who employed him. Then, take out Sherlock Holmes’ pet soldier.  _(Everybody has a weakness_ , _and I bet I know what John Watson’s is.)_  


	7. Assembling the Puzzle

Three hours after Mycroft’s visit, John sat on a park bench with David Hamilton.  David, a fortysomething man with a receding hairline, was wearing a dingy fleece pullover and rumpled khakis.  He kept looking over his shoulder as if he expected a pack of tigers to sneak up on them.

“So do you recognize this article?”  John handed him the clipping about Rich Brook.

“Yeah, I recognize it.  Didn’t write it, though,” David said, bouncing his right leg up and down like a piston.

“Did you try asking the _Gazette_ to print a retraction?”

“Yeah.  E-mailed, called, wrote letters, nothing.  I wanted to sue them but I couldn’t get anybody to take the case.”  David’s leg bounced so vigorously that it reminded John of a jackhammer.

John cocked an eyebrow.  “You mean you don’t want to sue them now?”

“Journalism’s a small world.  If I go round suing everybody who slights me, I could ruin my reputation.  It’s probably just as well nobody would take the case.” 

Trying a new tactic, John said, “So if you didn’t write the article, who did?”

“A guy named Mark Jessop,” David said, still looking around anxiously.

“Do you know how I could contact him?” John asked as he wrote down the name.

David gave John a strange look then said, “Try a séance.”

“Come again?”

“Jessop’s body washed up on the bank of the Thames two days ago.  Police said he jumped, but…” David gave a slightly longer glance than usual off to his right, then quickly focused his attention back on John.  “Listen, Dr. Watson, I’m sorry about your boyfriend, but I think you should let this go.”

David was gone before John could say, “We weren’t a couple.”  Dejected, the doctor went to hail a cab.  _(Someone definitely didn’t want him to talk to me_.  _But who? And why?)_

Angela White met John at a coffee shop and was decidedly calmer and more collected than David had been.  She’d produced _The Storyteller_ for the final five years of its run and confirmed that Rich Brook had never hosted the show.

“Who was the host?”

“On the show he went by Grandfather Tim, but his real name was Arthur Morstan.  It was a joy to work with him.”

John scribbled down the name.  “Why didn’t he speak up when Rich Brook claimed to have starred in his show?”

Angela shook her head sadly. “I’m sure he would have if he’d been healthy.  He was diagnosed with lung cancer in January and passed away at the end of June.  His daughter, Mary, is the executrix of his estate.  Now that everything’s settled down, maybe she’d be willing to help you get the truth out.”

“I’m terribly sorry for your loss,” John said in his doctor voice, “But,” he said, losing control, “Why didn’t anyone else speak up?  Why did you just let Moriarty walk all over you?”  _(Why did you let Sherlock jump off a building?)_

Angela looked down at her coffee, her voice barely above a whisper.  “I’m so sorry, John.  Mary insisted that we keep quiet.  Her dad was in no shape for media scrutiny and her mum’s not well either; she was afraid that the media firestorm would’ve killed them both.”  Angela paused, dropping her head to her hands.  “If I’d had any idea that Sherlock Holmes would… well, I don’t have many regrets in life, but this is one.”

_(As it should be.)_   If he were the sort of man who hit women, he’d be tempted to slap Angela.  Instead, he took a deep breath and pretended he was dealing with a subordinate who’d made a mistake.  In a voice both compassionate and firm, he said, “You can help me fix this by getting me in touch with Mary.”

After obtaining Mary Morstan’s contact information and graciously thanking Angela White, John returned to 221B Baker Street.  He typed up his notes from his interviews, and then pulled out his phone.  _(I have done three tours in Afghanistan, I have been shot, I have run through the streets of London tracking serial killers, and I have survived 18 months as the flatmate of Sherlock Holmes.  Why the hell do I still get nervous before I call a woman?)_

“Hello, may I speak with Mary...  Mary, my name’s John Watson… yes, _that_ John Watson… if it’s not too much trouble, I was wondering if I could meet with you some time and discuss _The Storyteller_?  Yes, next Wednesday is fine...  Luigi’s at noon?  See you then!”

When he hung up the phone, a ray of optimism shone through John’s anger.  _(One more piece of the puzzle…)_  


	8. Mary Explains It All

Mary Morstan threw John Watson off at first.  He wasn’t sure what he had been expecting, but he definitely had not expected her to be beautiful.  She was in her early thirties with wavy red hair extending halfway down her back, sparkling green eyes and just the right amount of freckles.  She was pleasingly curvy and knew how to dress to play up her assets.  John had to keep reminding himself to look at her face.

“Dr. Watson, I presume?”  Mary said from the corner booth.

“Please, call me John,” he said, shaking her hand.  John eased into the booth and they made small talk about the restaurant, the weather and movies being released that weekend.  After their pizza arrived, John brought the conversation around to business.

“So how long was your dad on _The Storyteller_?”  He asked, sprinkling parmesan cheese to his slice.

“Fifteen years.  He figured that was a good place to stop and he wanted to retire while he was still healthy enough to enjoy retirement.”

“Did the show have another host after him?”

She shook her head, swallowing a large bite of pizza.  “No, when he announced his retirement, the BBC decided the show wouldn’t be the same without him, so it went off the air.”

The ex-soldier clenched his fists and half-growled, “Why didn’t you go to the media with any of this before?”

Mary’s eyes watered.  She spoke softly, struggling to stay calm.  “My dad was so ill last spring.  He’d had cancer for some time, but in March he really started going downhill, and by the time of Moriarty’s trial, he was a dead man walking. I’m an only child and my mum has Alzheimer’s so there was no one to care for him but me.  Most days I didn’t have a minute to myself.  I didn’t hear about Sherlock until after my dad passed away.”  She paused and then looked up at John with mascara running down her cheeks.  “I wish I had said something.  Maybe I could have…”

_(Bloody hell.  Sherlock, I know you’d want me to berate her but I just can’t stand to see women cry.)_  John flipped a switch in his brain and went into Doctor Mode, using the “professional with a creamy centre” tone he took with irate patients and their families. “It’s all right, Mary.  You didn’t push him.”

“You’re not angry with me?”  She dabbed at her eyes with a napkin.

_(Not as long as you keep crying, damn you.)_   “I’m angry at the whole world,” he said honestly.  Pulling back, he looked her in the eye and continued, “I’m trying to prove that Rich Brook was a fraud, and to do that I need to take this information to the media.  If I do, you’re going to be hounded for interviews and tabloids might make up rumours about you.  I’ll do my best to shield you, but I can’t protect you from everything.  Do you think you’re up for it?”

Mary sighed.  “If it was just me, I would say yes.  But I’m worried about my mum; some days she doesn’t even remember that my dad’s passed on.  I can’t have reporters badgering her.”

The doctor thought for a moment.  “I have a friend who might be able to protect your mum.  If he agrees to keep the media away from her, will you help?”

“Yes.  I don’t want the world to forget about my dad,” she said, looking him in the eye. 

“All right, I’ll talk it over with my friend.”

The two sat in silence for a moment. Then Mary spoke. “John, I hate to pry, and this might not be my business, but I’ve been wanting to ask you something about you and Sherlock…”

“We weren’t a couple,” he said, mildly exasperated.

“Actually, I was just wondering how on Earth you became the flatmate of Sherlock Holmes?”  Mary said with a twinkle in her eye.

John gave a relieved smile and began, “A month after I was invalided home from Afghanistan, I ran into my friend Mike…” then launched into the story of how Mike had introduced the two of them, how he’d thought Sherlock was an infuriating git, but he’d stuck around because, “Believe it or not, he could be charming once in awhile, and whatever else he was, he was definitely _not_ dull.”

When he finished his story, Mary told him about her father.  “Everybody thought he was sweet and grandfatherly, like on the show – and he was – but he also had a mischievous streak,” she said.  “My dad was not fond of the press and he used to put on funny accents when reporters called.  Last February, one of them called three times in the space of an hour.  The first time she called, he pretended he was Irish, the second, he pretended he was Scottish, and the third time, he had her convinced he was a cattle rancher in Texas!  I don’t think the poor thing ever caught on!”

The two of them continued to exchange stories and John found himself more relaxed than he’d been since Sherlock jumped.  _(God, I feel like I’m drunk, and I haven’t touched a drop.)_   With the bill settled – John insisted on paying – they walked out together.

“So, erm, I have next Friday off,” John said.  “Maybe we could get together for coffee and I could let you know what my friend says about protecting your mum?”

Mary smiled.  “That sounds lovely.  Even if he can’t help, I’d like to see more of you.”

John watched Mary walk away, not caring a toss if anyone saw the goofy expression on his face.  Then his phone buzzed, dragging him back to Earth. 

_I need to speak with you. -MH_

_OK. Should I come to your office? –JW_

_Get in the car. – MH_

The last text arrived just as a black car pulled up next to John.  The doctor rolled his eyes.  _(Not the bloody power complex again!)_

 


	9. Aim For My Heart

John stepped into the backseat of the car and was surprised to find Mycroft there.  Usually he’d just send the car around and drag John off to meet him at some undisclosed location.  He wouldn’t come himself unless… _bugger!_

“You were spying on me!” he blurted, jabbing a finger at Mycroft’s nose.

“’Spying’ is such an undignified word,” the diplomat said, spinning his umbrella.  “But I warn you, be careful of that Morstan woman.  Things are not always as they seem.”

“I can handle this,” the ex-soldier snorted.

“I’m sure you can.  That’s why you were going to ask me to provide security for Miss Morstan’s mother,” the elder Holmes teased.

John sighed.  “Yes.  Will you?  It’s the only way she’ll help us.”

“Fine.  But you would do well to heed my warning.  Shall we return you to Baker Street?”

“No thanks, I’ll walk; it’s not that far and I need the air.  Thank you for your help, Mycroft,” he said sincerely.

After the doctor exited the car, Mycroft instructed his driver to take him to the office, then steepled his fingers under his chin as he always did when pondering.  The good doctor did have a point; they needed Miss Morstan’s assistance, and she would never cooperate if she thought there was even the smallest threat to her mother. Still, there was something he didn’t trust about the woman.  He sent a text to Anthea.

_Upgrade Mary Morstan’s surveillance status to Grade 4 and do a Red Level background check. - MH_

Unbidden, Mycroft’s mind went back to the last conversation he’d had with his mother.  It had been a gorgeous spring day and Mycroft was both grateful that his mother could enjoy such a day before she died and enraged at the world for being happy when he was miserable.

_Amelia Holmes was perhaps the only woman in history who looked regal while dying of breast cancer.  After seven years of struggle, she was losing, but she was determined to look beautiful until the end._

_“Mycroft!” Amelia smiled as her elder son entered the room._

_He kissed Amelia on the cheek and sat next to her bed.  “How are you, Mother?”_

_“Much better now that I have my boy,” she said, ruffling 22-year-old Mycroft’s hair as she’d done when he was small._

_Mycroft smoothed his hair back into place, slightly embarrassed.  “Sherlock sends his love.”_

_Amelia shook her head sadly. “I worry terribly for your brother, Mycroft. Sherlock has the potential to be a great man, but without a guide, he will fall into darkness.  Will you look after him?”_

_“I promise I shall, Mother,” Mycroft said, stroking her hand._

_They sat silently for a moment and then Amelia continued, “I’ve entrusted you with far more responsibility than a person your age should have to bear.  You have greatly exceeded my expectations, and I am very proud of you.”_

_“Thank you, Mother,” he whispered.  It was the only time Mycroft Holmes had ever cried._

Mycroft returned to the present, damning himself once again for breaking his promise to Mummy.  He had only given Moriarty information about Sherlock in order to prevent the criminal mastermind from “blowing up NATO in alphabetical order.”  He realized too late that Moriarty’s goal was not nuclear annihilation, but the annihilation of Sherlock.  _(Stupid!  How could I let him fool me?)_

For the first time in his life, Mycroft Holmes had disappointed his parents, and the only thing he hated more than being disappointed was _causing_ disappointment.  He could feel their disapproving gaze on him every time he walked by their portraits in Holmes Manor, could sense that even though they were deceased, they knew what he’d done and would not soon forgive him. Technically, Sherlock hadn’t forgiven him either; he’d merely called a truce in exchange for safe passage out of Britain and assistance in combating Moriarty’s agents.

Mycroft had just one way to make restitution to his family: to ensure that by the time Sherlock returned, his name would be cleared, he could go back to work, and most importantly, that John was safe. _(If my brother returns to a career still in shambles and a dead best friend, then I may well lose him for good.)_   And that was a thought too horrible to contemplate, even for Mycroft.

* * *

On Friday, Mary and John met at a local coffee shop and John explained the arrangement.  “My friend owns a security company and he can station bodyguards outside your home and anywhere else you like.  It’ll be discreet; you won’t feel like you have MI6 staking out your home or anything.”

“That sounds great, but how much would it cost?”  Mary asked, sipping her latte.

The doctor smiled.  “Let me worry about the bill.  You worry about your mum.”

“I couldn’t ask you to do that!  It’s got to be expensive!”

He waved his hand dismissively.  “Don’t worry.  He owes me a favor.”

Mary kissed him on the cheek. “I really need to get back to work.  But, I was wondering, um… what are you doing next Friday night?”

“I didn’t have any plans,” John said somewhat sheepishly.

“Would you like to get dinner?”

“I’d love to. There’s this new curry place down the street from my flat.  Meet me there at 6?  I’ll text you the address.”

The red-haired woman broke into a luminous smile. “All right.  It’s a date!”

John grinned as he watched Mary walk away.  He tried to remember how long it had been since he’d had a date.  Sherlock had been dead four months, and his last date was two months before that... crikey. He hoped he wasn’t too out of practice. 


	10. Girls Ain't Nothing But Trouble

Mary and John had their promised date and it went better than John had dared hope. Both had enjoyed _Star Trek_ as children and they had a flirty argument over their favorite captains.

“Come on, you can’t really like Picard better!  He’s a Frenchman!”  John said in mock exasperation.

“Portrayed by an Englishman!”  She retorted, jabbing him playfully with her elbow.  “I could listen to him talk for hours!”

“Yeah, because talking was all he did!  Kirk was a man of action!”

“You’re just jealous of him because he got all the girls,” she said, feigning indignation.

“Right now, there’s only one girl I want to get,” John said, and leaned over to kiss her.

After the kiss broke, Mary cooed, “I had a lovely time, John.  But I’ve got to get going – the neighbors are with my mum and they can’t stay much longer.  Can we do this again next week?”

“Of course."

John had to work the next day, but despite the chaos and carnage of working in Emergency, he smiled all day long.  He was so happy he didn’t even get annoyed with the chemist who called three times to clarify his messy prescriptions.  John’s smile finally faded when he returned home and saw Mycroft Holmes sitting on his couch.

“Good evening, Doctor Watson,” Mycroft said.

“Evening, Mycroft.  What’s this all about?” John said, tiredly.  Nobody could deflate a good mood like a Holmes.

The diplomat smirked. “I couldn’t help but notice you had a date with the Morstan woman last night.  You are, I take it, planning to see more of her?”

“Yes, not that it’s any of your business,” the doctor harrumphed, narrowing his eyes and folding his arms.

“Before you get too serious about her, you might want to read this.” Mycroft stood, holding out a file folder.  “I would hate to see you make a terrible mistake.”

John gave Mycroft such a poisonous stare that the taller man wondered if there was anti-venom for it.  John shouted, “Mycroft, my love life is none of your business!  I am fully devoted to clearing Sherlock’s name and I will not stop until everybody knows the truth!  But I cannot spend the rest of my life weeping over him! This is the first time I’ve actually been happy since Sherlock died and you are not getting in the way of that!”

The taller man frowned. “You are letting your hormones get in the way of this investigation!”

“She’s helping us, Mycroft!  She’s agreed to speak up and she’s got your people all over her!  What more do you want?”

“I want her to explain why she had lunch with a former Moriarty associate last June,” the diplomat said, calm but menacing.

The doctor shot back, “I want you to explain how she had time to become a dangerous criminal while caring for a mother with Alzheimer’s and a father with terminal cancer!”

Mycroft slapped the file onto the coffee table and thundered, “Dr. Watson, you are about to sleep with the enemy!  You could derail everything we’ve worked for!”

John gave him a look that would vaporize titanium and growled, “I don’t need a lecture on loyalty from the man who sold out his _own_ _brother_ to a criminal mastermind!”

The taller man leaned in close to John and snarled, “If any other man had said that to me, he would not see another sunrise.”

The doctor met his stare, unflinching and silent.

Taking a deep breath, the diplomat whispered, “Sherlock forgave me for that, in his own way. Before he jumped, he gave me this and asked me to show it to you if necessary.”

John’s eyes went wide as Mycroft reached into his jacket pocket and handed him an envelope.  Inside was a letter written in Sherlock’s spidery handwriting.

 

_Mycroft,_

_I am and perhaps shall always be infuriated with you for what you have done.  However, after blotting out the sentiment surrounding this issue and considering it rationally, I admit that had our roles been reversed, I may have done the same thing.  Further, I recall that you were of invaluable assistance to me during some of my more difficult experiences.  To judge you solely on your recent behaviour is to display an ignorance of our past._

_I remain forever your baby brother,_

_Sherlock_

 

Mycroft looked at John, his face a mask.  John looked up at him, fighting off tears, and breathed, “For Sherlock, I will forgive you.”

“Thank you,” was the barely audible reply, and a minuscule crack materialized in the Ice King’s façade.  It was gone as swiftly as it appeared.

John swallowed hard and regained his composure.  He stared up at the diplomat intensely and breathed, “We both know that he would want me to be happy.  Out of respect for him, please let this go.”

“As you wish, John.  I will not bring Miss Morstan up again.  But I encourage you to use the information you’ve been given,” Mycroft said.  He glided out of the flat, leaving the file on the coffee table.

On his way up to his bedroom, John threw the file in the trash.  After changing into his pajamas, he pulled Sherlock’s coat out of the closet and then curled up on top of the bed with the coat over him.


	11. Your Crystal Ball Ain't So Crystal Clear

During the month of November, John continued to chip away at the persona of Rich Brook.  He’d taken down Kitty Riley and he had some good information from Angela and Mary, but there were more pieces to the puzzle.  One of Kitty’s sources was already dead and he needed to move fast to get to the rest before Moriarty’s gang did.  Next on his list was Chris Stamper, Kitty’s ex-boss.  By some miracle, he still worked at the _Gazette_ and while he wouldn’t allow John into his office, he did agree to meet him at a park one cold Sunday.

Chris, a portly fiftyish man, sat fidgeting on a park bench. John tried to look at him the way Sherlock would. _(Married at least 15 years, probably unhappily judging by the state of his ring.  Manicured fingernails, trendy cologne… having an affair?  Has at least one cat, definitely the missus’ idea. Not entirely comfortable with this meeting, but still feels the need to be here.)_

“Good afternoon, Dr. Watson,” Chris said.

“Afternoon!  Call me John, please.”

“All right, John. What can I do for you?”

“I have some questions about these articles,” John said, handing him the clippings from Rich Brook’s portfolio.  “Kitty used these as sources for her article about Sherlock.  Over the last few months, I’ve spoken with several of the authors and they claimed that they never wrote a word of this.  I was wondering if you had any insight on the matter.”

Chris shifted uncomfortably.  “Kitty Riley is a grownup.  If you have questions about her work, you should address them to her.”

“I tried, but she appears to have dropped off the face of the Earth.  Not answering her cell, not coming to the door… and it’s not just me she’s avoiding, either.  I sent some people to check on her and they haven’t seen anyone go into or out of her flat for a few days.” 

Chris tried to hide the pallor spreading across his face.  “Are you sure?”

“Yes.  My people have always been trustworthy.”  John had used Sherlock’s homeless network to spy on Kitty, and at each of her usual haunts it had been the same: no sign of her for days.

Chris looked over his shoulders, suddenly nervous.  “You don’t think she’s…”

John raised an eyebrow.  “She’s what?”

Chris shuddered but didn’t reply.

“Chris, there are bad people behind this.  I can help protect you from them, but only if you cooperate.”

“Give me some time to think on it.  We’ll talk again next week,” said Chris, and he shook John’s hand and walked off. 

Chris tried to contemplate which would be worse: his wife finding out the real purpose of his trips to Southeast Asia or whatever Moran’s men had in store for him.

* * *

Later that night, Mycroft sat by the fireplace at Holmes Manor, relaxing with a glass of brandy.  He’d dismissed the staff so that he could receive status reports via text from John and Sherlock.

_How was your meeting with Stamper? – MH_

_Not good.  I can tell he’d like to talk, but something’s holding him back. – JW_

_Stamper makes frequent trips to Vietnam, correct? –MH_

_Yes. I saw his vacation photos and wanted to vomit. – JW_

_One of his favorite haunts burned down. All records of the clientele gone. He may assist us if he knows this. – MH_

_He’ll want proof.  –JW_

_I’m emailing it to him. –MH_

_Do I want to know how you know this? –JW_

_Definitely not. – MH_

Mycroft’s pre-paid phone buzzed shortly after he sent the last text to John.

_Just crossed Thor Bridge. –S_

_Carry on to Musgrave. – M_

_Seen the doctor? – S_

_Yes. He caught a number of fish this weekend. Girlfriend, too. –M_

_Dull and boring like the others, I’m sure. – S_

_I don’t care for this one. Could be playing for the wrong team. – M_

_Most of his girlfriends barely qualify as primates and you think he’s got one who can fool you? Paranoia! – S_

_I simply don’t trust her.  –M_

_If she’s like the others, she’ll be gone within three weeks. He’s horrendously unromantic. –S_

_Said the virgin. –M_

Sherlock didn’t reply.  In spite of himself, Mycroft smiled when he imagined the expression on his brother’s face.  It was so lovely to be one of the few people on Earth who could defeat Sherlock Holmes in a battle of wits!


	12. Between Brothers

Outside observers might suspect that Mycroft made John do everything while he sat back and twirled his umbrella.  Outside observers were usually wrong about Mycroft.

Just before he jumped, Sherlock had been falsely accused of kidnapping the American ambassador’s children.  Mycroft theorized that the real kidnapper had to have gained the trust of both Moriarty, who would not give such an important task to just anyone, and Scotland Yard, so that the kidnapper could convince them of Sherlock’s guilt.  In other words, Moriarty had a mole at Scotland Yard. Mycroft deduced that the mole was a relatively new hire; if the mole was someone Sherlock and John knew, they’d have discovered him.  _(The mole also needs to be someone with substantial reasons to work for both sides_. _Double agents are always the first to be killed and a person would not take on that type of risk without good reason.)_   Over the last few weeks, Mycroft had reviewed the official and unofficial files on all the Yarders hired in the months prior to Sherlock’s jump.   It had been labourious, but in late November, he’d finally found what he was looking for: Tim Nabors, a 31-year-old sergeant who’d begun working with Lestrade roughly a month before Sherlock’s “death.”

Tim had sown some wild oats in his younger days and was arrested a few times for vandalism, shoplifting, and possession of marijuana.  He appeared to have cleaned up his act after his younger brother, Travis, was convicted of two counts of murder and sentenced to life in Strangeways Prison.  The boys had been the best of mates as children but Tim had never visited his brother in prison.  The brothers hadn’t even spoken since Travis was incarcerated in late 2006.

Mycroft read the media coverage of the murder that sent Travis Nabors to jail.  Travis had attempted to rob a local corner shop and shot the owner and a customer; as he tried to escape, the driver of the getaway car abandoned him.  The car and driver were never found.  Travis swore that his brother was the driver, but six witnesses testified that they saw Tim at a party on the other side of town during the robbery. Ever since the robbery, Tim had been a model citizen and police officer. Why, then, would he go to Moriarty now?

Going through Tim’s old ATM records and CCTV footage, Mycroft found the answer.  Tim’s association with Moriarty was not new at all; they’d been working together for years.  _Six_ years, to be exact. Mycroft decided to have a little chat with the elder Nabors brother.

That afternoon, Mycroft’s people dragged Tim into the interrogation room.  Tim, a stocky young man with sandy hair, sneered at Mycroft from the metal chair.  Two security guards stood next to him stoically.

“Mr. Nabors, I understand you’re an associate of the late James Moriarty.”

Tim said coolly, “Don’t know what you’re talking about, mate.”

“Really?  That’s very interesting because I have quite a number of photos of the two of you together.”  One by one, Mycroft placed CCTV images of Tim meeting Moriarty on the table.   “As you can see, some of these are recent and some go back as far as 2006.  Isn’t that the year your brother went to prison?”

Tim stared at Mycroft, defiant and unblinking.  “If you got something to say, say it.”

“As I recall, your brother claimed that you were his accomplice in the crime that sent him to jail.”

“He’s lying.  I was at a party that night and I got six people who can prove it.  You know how it can be between _brothers_ , Mr. Holmes,” Tim said with a defiant smirk.

_(Ice now, payback later_. _Emotions are a weakness.)_   “Yes… six ‘witnesses’ who also owed favors to one Jim Moriarty.  I investigated all six of them, Mr. Nabors.  Two of them needed Moriarty’s help to hide a murder, two needed him to make some evidence disappear, and one had a secret family he was hiding from his wife.  Child’s play for Moriarty, I’m sure.  But the sixth chap, now he’s interesting!  I understand Moriarty took a real shine to him.  It seems that the sixth witness needed Moriarty to cover up his psychiatric records so that he could be inducted into Her Majesty’s Army.  You see, the Queen is not amused by the idea of someone with Antisocial Personality Disorder wearing her uniform.”

Mycroft leant over Tim as he continued.  “It’s that sixth man I want to ask you about.  What can you tell me about Sebastian Moran?”

“Why should I tell you?”  Tim spat.

“Because Moriarty missed one small detail when destroying the evidence for your involvement in the robbery,” Mycroft said, placing an old, battered security camera on the table.  

Mycroft paused to watch the rage flare in Tim’s face as he struggled impotently against his handcuffs. Mycroft chided him, “Now, now, don’t get too upset with Moriarty; it was rather early in his career and he was bound to make a few mistakes.  He thought this little gem would stay hidden forever, but I found it in the archives.  It recorded the parking lot the night of the robbery, and wouldn’t you know? Despite being hopelessly out of date, this camera has a clear image of the face of the driver of the getaway car.  _Your_ face, Mister Nabors.  And if you don’t tell me everything you know about Moran, I’m going to show this video to your superiors at Scotland Yard.”

Tim glowered.  “I’m not scared of them.”

“But clearly you are scared of Moriarty and Moran since you obeyed when they ordered you to kidnap the Ambassador’s children.”

“You can’t prove that.”

Mycroft gave Tim a condescending look and laid out his evidence calmly and methodically. “I can tell from the way you are sweating, your refusal to make eye contact, your rapid breathing and your difficulty in swallowing that you are lying to me.  Then there’s your flat.  That plumber last week was actually one of my agents.  You let him in, so I didn’t need to obtain a warrant. The evidence is still everywhere: duct tape, the pictures of a man in a long black coat that used to scare the children, the candy.”

Noticing the younger man’s disbelieving expression, Mycroft continued, “Yes, the candy.  I know the Ambassador and his family.  The children told me that they were only fed candy during their captivity – laced with mercury, which my agent also found in your flat – and you still have quite a lot left over.  Not only that, but while the children were missing, you were caught on CCTV buying much more candy than a single man would need, plus significant quantities of dextromethorphan cough syrup, likely used to drug the children so they wouldn’t be discovered at their hiding place, or in higher doses, to induce hallucinations. You _really_ ought to be more careful about cameras.”

With no response from the mole, the diplomat added, “And then there’s everything I learned from the children’s therapist…”

Tim stared at the floor.  He reminded Mycroft of a teenage boy getting an angry lecture from his parents.

Mycroft’s steely gaze pinned Tim to the chair. “You, Mister Nabors, are choiceless.  I have you for the kidnapping, the robbery, and destruction of evidence. Scotland Yard will fire you and Moran will execute you as you are of no further use to him.  If by some miracle you escape Moran’s clutches, you’ll be sent to Strangeways.  Your brother will be thrilled to be reunited with you after all these years. He might even throw you a welcome party,” Mycroft said with a terrifying grin.

“And if I do help?”

“A Category B prison, far away from your brother and Moran’s known associates.  It’s the best anyone can do.”

Defeated, Tim started talking.  “Moran took over after Jim died.  He’s not as clever as Jim was, but he’s just as vicious. He’s also the best shot I’ve ever seen.  He learnt in the Army before he got kicked out.”

“Dishonourable discharge?  Why?”

“You don’t ask him those things if you want to stay above ground.”

Mycroft nodded.  He had other ways of finding that information. “Can you tell us where he operates?”

“I know where his London bases are.  He has some elsewhere but I’ve never been.”

“Good.  Mark them on this map.”  Mycroft paused as Tim did so, then raised an eyebrow and inquired, “Just one more question.  Why did you want your brother sent to prison?”

Tim scowled.  “He was shagging my girlfriend.  He thought I didn’t know, the bastard.”

The older man sniffed, “That is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard.  Take him into custody.”

As he watched the guards drag Tim off, Mycroft smiled quietly to himself. _(The next time Sherlock claims that I am the worst elder brother in Britain, I shall tell him about the Nabors boys.)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Description of Tim is based on this theory about the Scotland Yard mole: bakerstreetbabes [dot] tumblr [dot com] / post / 25671311520 / dreamerofbakerst-finalproblem-so-all-of-a (remove spaces).
> 
> Strangeways is an actual Category A (maximum security) prison in Manchester, England. Category B prisons are slightly less secure. I am not British, so I apologize in advance if I goofed.


	13. My Past is Nipping at My Heels

At his next date with Mary, John couldn’t help thinking of his argument with Mycroft.  He tried to stay in the moment, but his mind kept wandering.  _(What if Mycroft is right?  What am I doing? Maybe there’s a reason the Holmeses want to run off all my girlfriends.)_

“Something’s bothering you,” Mary said as John absently picked at his Pad Thai.

The doctor feigned innocence. “What makes you say that?”

“We’ve been here fifteen minutes and you’ve hardly touched your food.  Either you’ve suddenly lost your appetite – and I don’t think you’re capable of losing your appetite – or something’s bothering you.”

John continued to sullenly poke his noodles.  Mary held his hand across the table and said, “Talk to me.”

“It’s Mycroft,” he grumbled, not looking up.

“Sherlock’s brother? What about him?”

John sighed and tossed his napkin onto the table.  “He doesn’t trust you.”

She shrugged.  “So what? From what you’ve said, he doesn’t trust anybody.”

“He thinks… well, he thinks you’re hiding something from me.  We had a huge row about it the other night.  I told him I didn’t believe him, of course, and I got him to back off.”

She surveyed John’s expression. “But the man _is_ the British Government and in the back of your mind you think I really can’t be trusted.”

Guilt written on his face, John protested, “No!  It’s not like that!”

Mary rubbed her temples. “John, there’s something I need to tell you, and I understand if you don’t want to see me anymore.  I was hoping I could keep this a secret, but I’d rather you heard this from me than from Mycroft.”

A thousand possibilities raced through John’s mind, each worse than the last.  _(She’s on the run from the Mafia. She’s a drug dealer. She’s…)_

“In 2003, I was arrested for protesting the war in Iraq.”

“What?”

Red-faced, Mary continued.  “I was in Uni and protesting on the campus. Things got a bit out of hand and I punched a police officer that was harassing my friend.  Spent a night in jail since Mum and Dad wouldn’t bail me out.”

John blinked. “That’s it? You got arrested at a war protest?”

Still not looking up, Mary said, “Yes.  I was afraid to tell you since you’re a veteran…”

John glanced over his shoulders then leaned in conspiratorially. “I was never in favor of the Iraq War either.  I thought America made up the rationale out of whole cloth and Blair was just being a lapdog to the Yankees. But,” he said, straightening, “If they’d ordered me to go to Iraq, I’d have done my duty and gone.” 

“You were against the Iraq War?  Then why did you join the army?”

“I joined years before the Iraq War.  There’s been a Watson in every war Britain’s fought for the last 250 years, and I grew up listening to my dad tell stories about all of them.  I couldn’t allow the tradition to end with me.”

The two sat quietly for a moment and then John took her hand and asked, “So, really, that’s it? No other Earth-shattering secrets?”

“No,” she said with a smile.

“Good.  For a minute there I was worried you’d had Jimmy Hoffa under your bed or something,” John said.  Both of them snickered, and then he continued, “This is excellent Pad Thai.  Want a bite?”

* * *

The next morning, John awoke tangled up in bedsheets and Mary’s arms. As he lay watching her sleep, Sherlock crept into his mind. John thought of how the detective had insulted so many of his dates, how he had never understood the point of sex or romance and tried to keep John away from both as much as he could.  John wondered what Sherlock would think of Mary.  If he were still alive, would he try to scare her off like he did the others?  Would she allow him to scare her off?  Or would she take it in stride?  Would he be able to keep them both? 

As Mary dozed, John sighed wistfully and tried to fight off the sadness swelling in his chest.  She was everything he’d ever wanted.  He imagined the two of them moving to the countryside, having a couple of adorable children, and growing old together. A part of him wished that Sherlock were here to wreck that future, and he hated himself for it.

After his girlfriend went home, John sat going over his e-mail.  The volume of messages he’d received from Sherlock’s supporters and former clients had been overwhelming.  Between ferreting out the truth about Rich Brook, his job, and the occasional date, it had taken him the better part of a month to read all of his e-mails.  He had almost all the information he needed about Moriarty’s alter ego, but it wasn’t enough to speak against Moriarty; he needed to find people who could speak in favor of Sherlock.

 

_Dear Dr. Watson,_

_I’ll always be grateful to you and Sherlock Holmes for solving the mystery surrounding my father’s death.  If there’s anything I can do to assist you in clearing his name, please let me know._

_Henry Knight_

_Dear Dr. Watson,_

_Several years ago, Sherlock saved me from a stalker when the police refused to do anything. I am happy to lend a hand in spreading the truth about him._

_Violet (Smith) Morton_

 

John read several dozen similar messages.  It might not be feasible to get every one of these people to participate in a press conference, but maybe that wasn’t necessary.  He could take a few to the press conference with Mary and Angela and then post the e-mails from the rest on his blog. Hopefully that would get reporters interested in their stories and get a little more exposure.

Now, who should go to the press conference?  Henry Knight, certainly; he’d been in front of the camera before and could handle himself.  The young men from the Geek Interpreter case had agreed to come forward, but two of the three were a bit socially awkward.  Still, any awkwardness on their part might prove that the conference wasn’t staged.  Since he hadn’t been present for Violet Morton’s case, John decided to ring her up and see what she was like.

After introducing himself, John asked Violet about Sherlock.  “You said Sherlock saved you from a stalker?”

“Yes, every day I’d be out riding my bike, and every day, when I rode by the same spot, there was the same bloke.  At first I didn’t think anything of it, but after a week or so, I noticed him trying to follow me on his bike.”

“ _Trying_ to follow you?”

Violet smiled as she said, “Yes. I was training for the Ironman Triathlon, so he could never catch up to me.  That’s why the police dragged their feet in the investigation; they figured that since I could out-pedal him, I wasn’t in any danger.”

“Idiots.”

“That’s what Sherlock said. He found out more about the bloke and it turned out he was a right nutter; he’d recently been released from a mental hospital and had a reputation round the neighborhood for torturing small animals.  Sherlock had one of his homeless friends disguise herself as me to trap him. The nutter planned to kill me if he ever caught me!  Sherlock saved me and God knows how many other women by putting him away.”

“That’s amazing!  Do you think you could tell that story at a press conference?”

“I’d be thrilled.  Just give me a few days’ notice; I’ll need a babysitter.”

After e-mailing Henry Knight and the Geek Interpreter boys, John stretched out on the couch and was about to read a medical journal when the phone rang.  He recognized Chris Stamper’s number immediately.

“Mr. Stamper!  What can I do for you?”

“John, I have some new information,” he said, his voice sounding lighter.  “I’d like to help you clear Sherlock Holmes’ name.”

John stammered, “That’s, that’s wonderful!  Mary Morstan and several of Sherlock’s old clients have agreed to speak on Sherlock’s behalf, and if we can get them all together and call a press conference, I think we can put this thing to bed.”

“Agreed.  How does the second Friday in December look for everyone?  Fridays are good days for human interest stories, especially at Christmastime.  Everybody wants to see something happy.”

“Sounds grand!  I’ll call the others.”

John was about to start dialing when his phone rang.  _(Mycroft? What’s he want?)_

Mycroft said, “I see I was able to convince Mr. Stamper to assist us.”

John growled, “If you have cameras in the flat, so help me God I will smash them to bits and feed them to you!”

“Your flat? No. Stamper’s office?  Yes.”

“Lying to me will only increase the number of metal bits I put in your cupcakes,” the ex-soldier warned.

The posh man rolled his eyes.  “I’m on a diet, thank you.  But threats aside, I have a question. Does the name Sebastian Moran mean anything to you?”

John thought for a moment and then replied, “Yes.  I only knew him by reputation; we were never properly introduced. One of the medics said that just before my third tour started, Moran tore through the field hospital slapping men with PTSD and calling them cowards, even if they were wounded.  He tried dragging a few back to the battlefield, too! I heard he was dishonourably discharged for that.”

“I saw the report in his file.  So you’re familiar with what he’s capable of?”

“More or less.”

“Good.  He’s Moriarty’s successor.”

John blinked. “How did you find that out?”

“By interrogating the man he hired to frame Sherlock.  Watch the news tonight; the man’s identity may surprise you.”

After Mycroft hung up, John turned on the telly.   Within a few minutes of flipping around, he found the press conference in which Scotland Yard announced that Tim Nabors had been charged with the kidnapping and all charges against Sherlock Holmes had been dropped.

Swallowing hard against the lump in his throat, he murmured, “I told you we’d solve the puzzle, Sherlock.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The incident that got Moran discharged is a grossly exaggerated version of something General Patton did during World War II.
> 
> The title of this chapter is lifted from "Army" by Ben Folds Five.


	14. Moran Strikes Back

It was the second Thursday in December, and while most of London was joyfully preparing for Christmas, Sebastian Moran was at work, fuming.  That leprechaun Watson was smarter than he’d expected.  He thought that he’d sent a message with Hamilton, who car had “stalled” in front of a train a few days before, but evidently it wasn’t enough to stop half of Britain from blabbing to the little blond doctor. Frustrated, Moran had tried talking to Stamper; Stamper’s position at the _Gazette_ had made him a powerful assistant in turning the media against Sherlock.  To say that the meeting didn’t end well was an understatement.

_Moran said, “You better remember who employs you, Chris.  I wouldn’t want your recreation in Southeast Asia to come to light.”_

_“Funny thing about that, Sebastian,” the older man said, folding his hands.  “I phoned our friends in Ho Chi Minh City the other day, or at least I tried to.  It seems they’re a little, shall we say,_ buried _in their work.”_

_Moran’s eyes went wide briefly, but he resumed his defiant mask.  “So what?  I still have proof that you –“_

_Chris cut him off. “No.  You_ had _proof.  Your men in Ho Chi Minh, your men in Beijing, and your men in Moscow are all gone.  And without them, you don’t have me.  Now get out of my office.”_

Moran drummed his fingers on Jim’s old desk and scowled.  God, he wished Jim was here! The press conference was a mere 18 hours away and if he didn’t do something about it soon, everything he and Jim had built would collapse.  If only there was some way to stop Watson!  Moran supposed he could murder him, but that was too obvious; even Scotland Yard could figure out that he had a grudge against the interfering shrimp.  No, he needed to be a little more subtle – a distraction of some sort… 

Oh.  Of course.  Why hadn’t he thought of this sooner?  Moran started cleaning his favourite toy. 

* * *

On the morning of the press conference, John stood backstage with Mary, Chris, Violet, Henry, and two of the Geek Interpreter boys.  Before they went onstage, he thanked each participant profusely, giving encouraging words to the very shy Geek boys and a kiss to Mary.  The seven of them walked into the auditorium expecting to hear a din of reporters and see a thousand cameras flashing.  Instead, they were greeted with silence.

“What the hell?”  John said to the lone reporter.  “Where is everybody?”

The reporter, clearly an intern on his first assignment, said, “Didn’t you hear?  Ron Adair was murdered last night. They’ve called everyone off this story to cover it.”

Mary gasped. “Ron?  From _Rise and Shine_?  But he’s so nice!  Are they sure it’s him?”

“I’m afraid so, ma’am.  Strange business too; looks like he was home alone, all the doors locked.  No idea who did it.  Terribly sorry, but I’ve got to get going.”

John hugged Mary and said softly, “Was he a friend of your dad’s?”

Through tears, she replied, “He was a friend of everybody’s.  God, who would do such a thing?”

“I don’t know,” John lied.  _Moran._

* * *

Mycroft’s pre-paid phone buzzed with a text.  His face remained an impassive mask as he typed out the last conversation he would ever have on this phone.

_Bluebirds over the white cliffs of Dover. – S_

_Lovely. But I’m afraid there isn’t peace ever after. – M_

_Did you tie up traffic again? – S_

_No. Murder. Police completely confounded. – M_

_As always. Interesting case? – S_

_Very. Will fill you in tonight. – M_

_It’s so kind of the Yard to have a present for me upon my return. – S_

_Indeed. Welcome home. – M_  

* * *

Moran leaned back in his chair with his feet on the desk and a smug expression on his face.  The press conference had been thwarted and Scotland Yard was flummoxed.  There was only one obstacle left, and he knew just how to get rid of it.  Time to make a phone call.

“It’s Moran.  I need you to find out if he’s helping with the Adair case.  Go to his house and go through everything, and I mean everything.  Papers, mobile, computer, underwear drawer, whatever, just find out.  Then when you’re finished, bring him to me.”

Moran hung up the phone looking much like a piranha on its way to a feeding frenzy.


	15. The Empty Flat

The night of the failed press conference, Greg Lestrade sat at his desk filling out what seemed like his thousandth report of the day. _(Christ. If I’d known I’d have to do this much paperwork, I’d have been an accountant.)_   A thorough search of Adair’s flat had come up with nothing but the bullet that killed him.  The neighbours didn’t see or hear anything, the victim had been home alone, and he was a veritable saint with no enemies to speak of.  In all his years on the force, the DI had never seen such a frustrating murder. He would gladly suffer any of Sherlock Holmes’ insults if it meant that this bloody case would be solved!

The phone interrupted his mental grumbling.  “Lestrade,” he answered.

“Detective Inspector, this is Mycroft Holmes.”

“Mycroft!  It’s been too long.  Again, I’m terribly sorry about Sherlock; he was a great man.”

“Thank you.  Detective Inspector, I understand that you are assigned to the Adair case.”

“Correct.” 

“What if I told you that I could deliver the culprit into your hands?”

Lestrade sat back in his chair, stunned.  “I would say that you have my attention.”

“Good,” Mycroft said as he strolled into Lestrade’s office, hanging up his mobile.  “Come along; my associate is waiting at the crime scene.”

“Now?”

Mycroft pursed his lips.  “Yes, now.  We’ve a long and dangerous night ahead of us.”

When Mycroft and Lestrade arrived at Adair’s building, Mycroft stopped the DI from entering.  Instead, he paused just outside the entryway, explaining that his associate would meet them outside.

“And who exactly is this associate?”

“Nice to see you again, Lestrade,” Sherlock said, stepping out of the shadows.

Lestrade gaped in silence.  The coat was a different colour, the hair was much shorter, and the clothes were from a thrift store, but it was definitely Sherlock and he was definitely alive.

Bemused, Sherlock said, “Is that your impersonation of a fish, or are you merely surprised to see me?”

The DI yelled, “You’re not dead!”

“Your grasp of the obvious is astounding,” Sherlock said dryly.

_(Why does my baby brother think that every moment is an opportunity for him to show off?)_  Mycroft barked,  “Gentlemen, we have only 14 hours to solve this crime and prevent another! Have your school reunion later!”

Lestrade looked from Sherlock to Mycroft and said, “What happens in 14 hours?”

“Adair’s killer will strike again,” Sherlock replied.

“Who’s the target?  I can send a team out to protect them.”

“I have that under control, Detective Inspector,” Mycroft said evenly.  “For now, take us to Adair’s flat.”

After riding up the lift, Lestrade and the Holmeses ducked under the crime scene tape and entered the room where Ron Adair was killed.  He’d been up late working on a story about paleo diets – typical morning news show fluff – when he’d taken a bullet to the head.   The bullet had come in through the window next to his desk and entered his head just behind his ear.  Adair never knew what hit him.

“The neighbors don’t know anything, and as far as we can tell there’s no motive.  Either of you have any theories?” Lestrade said.

Simultaneously, Sherlock said “four” and Mycroft said “three.”  Sherlock gave his brother a questioning look.

Mycroft tilted his head to the left.  “The wallpaper.”

“Of course.  Three,” he said, turning to Lestrade.

The DI was flabbergasted.  Sherlock had been corrected?  And he’d taken the correction graciously? That was more miraculous than Sherlock returning from the dead.

The younger Holmes snapped, “Lestrade, this is a crime scene, not your dentist’s office!  Close your mouth!” 

Lestrade did as he was told.  Sherlock asked the DI if he had the bullet; he did, and produced the evidence bag from his coat pocket.  Holding the little bag up, the brothers studied the bullet for a moment.

“9 mm bullet, intended use in handguns,” Sherlock said.

“But this one was not used in a handgun,” Mycroft observed.

“Of course not!  Even the Yard could see that!  Right?” Sherlock glared at Lestrade.

“Right, but we can’t figure out what sort of gun it was used in,” Lestrade countered.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and huffed, “Oh for God’s sake!  What have you people been doing without me?  London’s murderers must have spent the last six months rejoicing! ‘Yes, don’t bother cleaning up your tracks, the Yard will never catch you without Sherlock Holmes!’ I thought London would be dull without Moriarty, but it seems that as long as Scotland Yard has your lot, I shall never want for work!”

“Enough, Sherlock!” Mycroft barked, exasperated.  “The bullet was fired from an air gun, which explains why none of the neighbours heard it.”

“No air guns can shoot anything larger than a .22!” Lestrade protested.

“Most air guns can’t, but as a ‘favour’ a gunsmith designed one for Moran.  And why did he want an air gun?” Sherlock said, mocking the DI.  “Because it’s quieter than a rifle and has a longer range than a handgun!”

Lestrade decided that from now on, he’d be a bit more careful of what he wished for.  “So where was the shooter?”

Sherlock threw up his hands and sighed dramatically. “Do we have to do everything round here?  Clearly, he was in the building on the other side of the park!”

Lestrade went to the window and surveyed the park.  The closest building was almost 500 yards away.  “That’s a hell of a shot!”

“Indeed,” Mycroft said.  “There’s only one man in Britain with that much skill.”

“Yes, and he’s going to get away with unless we prove he was in that building!  Come along!”  With that, Sherlock flounced out.  He’d reached the lift and was on his way down before either Mycroft or Lestrade knew what happened.

As they rode the lift down, Lestrade asked Mycroft, “So who’s the only man in Britain who could make that shot? And why did he want to kill Adair?”

“In answer to your first question: Sebastian Moran, formerly of Her Majesty’s Army and currently head of Moriarty’s organisation – or rather, the remains of it.  As for the second, this morning John had planned to hold a press conference to prove that Sherlock was not a fake.  Adair’s murder was merely a ploy to distract the media.”

“Poor bastard.”

Mycroft said coolly, “I can think of worse ways to die.  Can’t you, Detective Inspector?” 

The DI nodded silently.

Outside Adair’s building, Mycroft said, “Gregory, I trust you are capable of chasing after Sherlock for the remainder of the evening?”

“You’re not coming with us?”

“No, I think he has this well in hand.  I’ve another task to accomplish.  I suggest you have the rest of the Yard on standby, as they shall be needed tomorrow.  Moran will not go gentle into that good night.”  Mycroft shook Lestrade’s hand and then slid into a waiting black Mercedes. 

Seeing that Sherlock had already reached the other building, Lestrade bolted after him.  When Lestrade caught up with Sherlock, he was talking to the security guard.

“Come on, mate, you’ve got to help me out,” Sherlock said, affecting a Liverpool accent and feigning tears.

“I told you, I don’t know the guy,” the security guard said shiftily.

“But Moran is the only one who can get me out of this mess!  I know he did that for you and look at you now!”

“I haven’t done anything!”

Turning steely, Sherlock said, “Not in the last six years, you haven’t.  But before that, you committed a bank robbery, and Moran helped you get away with it!”

Lestrade interjected, holding up his badge.  “Listen, mate, we’re trying to solve a murder here.  We don’t care what you’ve done.  Help us out and I’ll ‘forget’ about your crime until the statute of limitations is up.”

The guard grumbled, “All right.  Yes, Moran was here last night.  He asked me to let him into Suite 1409, but he wouldn’t tell me why.”

Lestrade asked, “Mind if we go have a look?”

The guard took them up to the 14th floor and down the long hallway.  As he unlocked the door, he said, “Sorry about all the dust. Housekeeping’s had their budget cut, so they’re not cleaning the unoccupied spaces.  Let me know when you two are done and I’ll lock it up.”

As the guard left, the detectives surveyed the room.  Suite 1409 had been empty for months and a thick layer of dust covered every surface.  Lestrade’s nose started running almost immediately after he entered.  The two men walked carefully through the small space, clouds of dust rising with each step they took.  Choking on the dust, Lestrade said, “God!  We’ll need masks to search this place!”

“That’s it!” Sherlock cried.  “Lestrade, your mind may not be the sharpest but I have so missed the way it whets mine!”

“Huh?” Lestrade said before a sneezing fit.

Pulling his jumper up over his mouth and nose, Sherlock said, “Moran must have had a dust mask!  If we can find where he disposed of it, we may be able to retrieve a DNA sample!  You search the bins!  I’ll look here! We’ll meet outside at sunrise!”

_(I never thought searching the rubbish would be the easier job.)_   The rubbish might have a horrific smell, but at least he could get through it without coughing and sneezing uncontrollably.

For his part, Sherlock methodically tiptoed through the office, attempting to disturb as little dust as possible.  He first examined the window; it had an exceptional view of Adair’s flat and there was a hole perfectly in line with Adair’s head when he was sitting at his desk. _(Interesting.  Hole is the perfect size for a 9 mm slug, but pattern of cracking suggests fired at a slightly lower speed than a normal rifle.)_  Sherlock took a closeup photo of the hole.  Stepping back, he took another picture showing the hole lined up with Adair’s flat.  _(This was the location, but what ties Moran to it?)_

Moran had been careful and covered his footprints in the office, but he’d made the mistake of tracking some dust onto the hallway carpet, and the janitor hadn’t cleaned it yet.  Sherlock snapped a photo from just inside the doorway.  _(Most likely from a man’s size 13 shoe.  The security guard’s shoes are size 11, and judging by the state of the ceiling fan in the hallway, the janitor can’t be more than five foot six; no man that height has feet this large. Moran is a tall man, so this is his footprint.)_

Just before dawn, Sherlock and Lestrade regrouped in the alley next to the building.  Lestrade was tired, grumpy, and covered with… actually, he preferred not to think of what he was covered with.

Sherlock, on the other hand, was all too cheerful.  “Good morning, my filthy Detective Inspector!  What have you found?”

“Found three dust masks.  You didn’t say before, how tall is Moran?”

“Six foot four.”

“Right, well, we can eliminate this mask,” Lestrade said, tossing the smallest over his shoulder.  “These two are both size XL and could be worn by a man Moran’s size.”

Sherlock studied the two masks closely before throwing one back into the bins.  “Moran has broken his nose at least three times, and as a result, his nose is extremely lumpy and unattractive.  He’s proud of it, thinks it makes him look more menacing.  I think it makes him look moronic, but then he _is_ a moron and I approve of truth in advertising. The nose of this mask was contoured to the bridge of Moran’s monstrous nose.  And look – he sneezed in it repeatedly!  Even Anderson could get a DNA sample out of this mess!”

The younger man grinned triumphantly, displaying the nasal secretion-encrusted interior of the mask.  Lestrade pulled a face as he produced an evidence bag from his pocket.

“So what have you found?”  Lestrade said as he bagged the mask.

“Hole in the window, definitely from a 9 mm round.  Took pictures of it and a footprint – has to be Moran’s, too large to be the janitor’s or the security guard’s and too recent to be anyone else,” he said, holding up his small camera and displaying the pictures for Lestrade.

“Good work.  I suppose you have a plan for catching this Moran bloke?”

“Yes.  Mycroft’s people have spent the night performing reconnaissance on Moran’s hideouts.  Mycroft will text me when he knows which one Moran is currently using and then you and your lot can apprehend him.  In the meantime, I suggest you take this evidence to the Yard and then,” Sherlock sniffed and wrinkled his nose, “have a shower.”

“I suggest you have one too,” Lestrade replied.  “All that dust in your hair makes you look like you’ve gone gray.”

The expression on Sherlock’s face caused the DI to double over with laughter.

* * *

Back at 221B, John awoke next to Mary.  He couldn’t believe how amazing she looked and that she was actually his.  John kissed the top of her head and said, “Morning, love.  Sleep well?”

“Like a baby,” she yawned.

“You want to get brunch somewhere?”

“Sure,” she said, smiling up at him.

John returned the smile and said, “All right, you stay there for a bit. I’ll go shower.”

“Mmm-hmm,” she mumbled, flopping back onto the pillow.  As soon as she heard the shower running, Mary climbed out of bed and found her mobile.

_Went through his flat.  He’s not helping the Yard. Meet us at this address in 2 hours. – MM_

_I can’t wait. – SM_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “We have a long and dangerous night ahead of us” is a quote from the Arthur Conan Doyle story “The Empty House.”


	16. London Showdown

Mary and John stepped out of the café after brunch to find a cold, dreary London.  Neither of them wanted to go home yet, but spending time outdoors was less than desirable.  Mary suggested visiting a museum; John wasn’t much for museums but he’d visit Pluto if Mary suggested it.  She hailed a cab and the two of them hopped in the backseat.  John held Mary’s hand and thought he must be the luckiest man in the world. 

Then everything went black.

John awoke duct-taped to a chair in a dimly lit warehouse.  As the room swam into focus, he sized up his captors: a tall, muscular blond man with a nose that looked like it had been through a meat grinder and… Mary?

“So nice of you to join us, Dr. Watson,” the tall man said. “You already know my associate.  Rather well, from what I’ve heard.” He nodded to Mary.

“What the hell?”  John said, still reeling from the concussion. “Who are you?”

“Sebastian Moran. Jim Moriarty helped me readjust to civilian life when the Army threw me away.  He never mentioned me, did he?  No, Jim wanted everybody to think he did it all by himself.  The truth is that he never could have done it without _me!_ Jim was the idea man, but I brought all his ideas to life,” Moran said with a pompous smirk.

John glared at his girlfriend, who winced and looked at the floor. “Mary, what in the hell is going on?”

Moran sneered, “Yes, Mary. Tell your loverboy why I had you seduce him.”

Trembling, she began to speak.  “My dad didn’t die of cancer.  He was forced to retire because he was addicted to pain pills, and when the pills weren’t enough, he started using heroin. We tried to get him help but he went to rehab after rehab and nothing worked.  He shared needles, he… sold himself, and he got AIDS.  That was what really killed him.  Jim helped me cover up his addiction and the circumstances of his death.  Sebastian threatened to tell everyone if I didn’t deliver you to him.  I’m so sorry, John.”

John looked at Mary with a mixture of pity and revulsion.  Turning from her to the man with the monstrous nose, he snarled,  “What do you want, Moran?”

“I want you to stop all your efforts to clear Sherlock’s name.”

John went from infuriated to completely confused.  “Sherlock’s already dead.  What could clearing his name do to you?”

Moran laughed; it was a cold, mirthless sound.  “Oh, Dr. Watson, you really don’t know?  Your boyfriend was right; your mind really is placid and barely used!  Well, you’ve got quite a surprise waiting for you when you get to the Great Beyond!  Let’s just get him there before someone spoils it, shall we, Mary?”

Mary’s face turned deathly white.  “What do you mean?”

“I need you to prove which side you’re on,” Moran said, and placed a Sig Sauer 9 mm in her hands.  “If you really want your father’s secret to stay a secret, you need to eliminate the only person outside of the organisation who knows.”

“But-“ Mary stammered.

Moran’s stare proclaimed that further discussion was not an option. Time seemed to stop.  Mary and John stared at each other pleadingly.

Eyes brimming, Mary took a deep breath and said, “I’m sorry, John.”

She pointed the Sig at John with shaking hands.  Clearly, she’d never held a gun before, much less pointed a gun at another human being.  As she pulled the trigger, a smoke grenade landed between her and John and the fire alarm clanged.  Smoke poured from behind Moran and Mary as well; with his vision obscured and no sound from John, Moran didn’t know that the bullet had only grazed the doctor’s left arm.

“Let’s get out of here!” Mary shouted.

“I will.  But I’m afraid you’ve outlived your usefulness,” Moran said, and he pulled out a second Sig and shot Mary.  Then he directed his men towards the front door and they made their escape.

John surveyed the room for a way out.  Through the smoke, he spied a sharp-edged crate a few feet away and laboriously scooted his chair to it.  Adrenaline coursing through his vein, the wound in his arm may as well have been a paper cut.  He briskly rubbed the duct tape on his wrists against the edge of the crate, sawing it off.  Hands freed, he ripped the duct tape off his ankles, covered his mouth and nose with his jumper, and then made his way over to Mary.  _(Sweet Jesus.)_ Moran’s bullet had hit her in the temple and she lay in a large pool of blood.  John blinked back tears.  _(Remember Afghanistan.  You’ve carried on after this before and you have to do it again.)_   He gently picked up Mary’s gun before scrambling to the back of the building.

John burst through the rear exit coughing and gasping, then staggered clear of the building.  After pulling his jumper off, he salvaged the duct tape and used it as a makeshift tourniquet.  He could hear Moran and some other voices but couldn’t make out what they were saying.  _(I need to get to a good vantage point.)_   He ducked behind a stack of crates and sneaked over to another warehouse about 50 feet from the one that was on fire.  The ex-soldier scurried up a drainpipe to the roof of the second warehouse and crawled on his stomach to the edge of the roof.  _(Pain is irrelevant.  Forget the pain.)_   Cautiously, John peered over the edge of the roof.  The scene below amazed him.

Greg Lestrade and half of Scotland Yard were in the parking lot wearing riot gear. The police had their guns trained on Moran, who stood between the buildings with a hostage.  Both hostage and captor had their backs to him, but when he saw that the hostage was a tall, dark-haired man, he immediately knew the man’s identity. _(Mycroft! He’s not equipped for these situations.  I’ve got to do something.)_

John checked the gun and found a half-full clip.  Good.  He quickly reviewed his options.  He could aim for Moran’s torso, but with Moran holding Mycroft in front of him, the bullet could go through Moran and into Mycroft. _(Can’t take that risk.)_ However, Moran was a few inches taller than the hostage and was holding the top of the hostage’s head level with his chin.  If the hostage held completely still and John’s aim was absolutely perfect, he could get the top of Moran’s head without injuring anyone else. 

**BANG**

The bullet went into Moran’s skull.  Moran fell.  The hostage staggered backwards.  John raced back down the drainpipe, sidled past the crates and came upon the hostage, who was kneeling over Moran’s body with his back to John.  John stopped just behind him, panting.

“Are you OK?”

“Better than I’ve been in months, John,” a very familiar voice said, and Sherlock Holmes stood up and spun about, the corners of his mouth turned up slightly.

John’s jaw dropped.  Spluttering incoherently, he punched Sherlock in the face.  And then, John Watson lost consciousness for the second time that day.


	17. Reichenbach Fallout

Within an hour, word spread through Royal London Hospital that the unconscious blond man brought in for a minor bullet wound and smoke inhalation was Dr. John Watson of the Emergency & Trauma Centre, and he had been speedily admitted and spirited off to a private room. The tall man who accompanied him had refused to leave Dr. Watson’s side, but after some persuasion, the nurses convinced him to step back a few feet so that they could treat their patient.  One doctor wondered if the man was his boyfriend, but no, that couldn’t be right, Dr. Watson had a girlfriend. (Where was she, anyway?) 

The tall man had calmed down slightly when the physician told him that Dr. Watson would be all right.  He stationed himself next to Dr. Watson’s bed, neither moving nor averting his gaze and snapping at anyone who knocked.

For the first time in six months, Sherlock had a chance to deduce his best friend.  He’d seen the wound before the nurse bandaged it and knew it was inflicted by a 9 mm bullet from a distance of 15 feet or less.  Who shot him?  Not Moran; he would have shot to kill and no distraction on Earth could cause Moran to miss a shot from such a close range.  One of Moran’s bodyguards?  No.  While many of his other lackeys had been incompetent, Moran would expect only the best from the people he hired to protect his person.  That left Mary.  Sherlock was rather annoyed that Moran had already killed her.  He wished he could have punished her himself, and he wouldn’t have been as swift and unstylish as Moran likely had been.  Looking on the bright side, perhaps now John would finally stop going on his ridiculous dates.

He squirmed in his seat and wished John would wake up.  _(This chair is uncomfortable, the staff is annoying, and I am horrendously bored!)_ The doctors said John would be fine, but Sherlock didn’t completely trust them; he could tell by the state of their shoes that they were idiots.  He had spent the last six months circling the globe in an effort to protect John and the mission wouldn’t truly be over until John was awake and talking to him. He knew from Mycroft that John had suffered greatly while he was gone, especially at the beginning.  _(Will he forgive me for what I’ve done to him?  Can we continue to be friends?)_   Sherlock didn’t care if John refused to take him back, really he didn’t.  He had lived without friends for years before he met John and he could do it again.  It was the uncertainty that drove him mad.

John awoke a short time later with IV fluids and a morphine pump running into his right arm, a proper dressing on the left arm and oxygen tubing in his nose _._   _(Afghanistan?)_ Slowly, it came back to him.  No, this wasn’t Afghanistan; the smell was completely different.  And no, he hadn’t had another nightmare about being shot again.  He actually had been shot again, although this time the bullet had merely grazed his tricep instead of shattering next to his rotator cuff.  As his eyes drifted open, he became aware of a man sitting on his right, leaning over him.

The man’s voice was anxious as he said, “John, are you all right?”

John blinked, and Sherlock Holmes came into view.  Thoughts of Mary intruded, but he pushed them out. Right now, he needed to focus on Sherlock.  He took a long look at his friend. Sherlock’s hair was short, practically a buzz cut.  He had a new scar on his jaw and would soon have a bruise where John punched him.  His cheekbones and collarbone were more prominent than usual and his eyes were bloodshot.  _(So this is what happens when nobody reminds him to eat and sleep.  Pupils look normal, so at least he’s not using drugs again._   _And is he wearing jeans and a beige jumper?)_

“You’re not dead,” John said lamely.

“Brilliant diagnosis,” Sherlock said, cocking his head.  “Have you considered attending medical school?”

John groaned, then spat out rapid-fire questions.  “Not now, Sherlock! What were you doing here today?  How did you fake your death?  And why?  And why the hell did you make me **_watch_**?”

Sherlock began to speak, hands fidgeting nervously.  “I’ve spent the last few months chasing Moriarty’s associates all over the world. I needed to eliminate every one of them to ensure your safety.  Moran was the last, and when I returned to England yesterday, my brother helped me prove that he murdered Ron Adair.  We arranged for the police to be at the warehouse today to apprehend Moran. I set the fire and threw the smoke bomb to distract him and his men.  I had already dispatched one of his bodyguards and was about to free you when I was delayed by Moran.”

John was nearly speechless.  “You did all that to save me?”

Sherlock looked him in the eye and said, “I also jumped off a building to save you.”

John blinked in disbelief.  Sherlock Holmes, the self-proclaimed sociopath had risked his own life to save John?  “Huh?” was all John could manage.

Sherlock raked his fingers over his stubbly hair, undoubtedly nostalgic for his messy curls.  “The day of my ‘suicide,’ Moriarty had snipers fixed on you, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson.  If I didn’t die, Moriarty would have ordered them to fire.  I had hoped to obtain the recall code from Moriarty, but he shot himself in the head, leaving me no choice but to jump off of Bart’s.  I had anticipated that such an extreme course of action might be necessary and I had Molly assist me in faking my death.”

John’s voice was a deadly growl, “That still doesn’t explain _why you made me watch!”_

“I owe you a thousand apologies, John.” Sherlock said in a low voice.  For only the second time since John had known him, Sherlock looked contrite.  He continued, “I never intended to make you watch.  The phone call about Mrs. Hudson was to keep you away from Bart’s until after the deed was done.  It appears that for once, you were faster than I anticipated.”

When John didn’t speak, Sherlock kept explaining.  “John, before all this I never understood the expression ‘a fate worse than death.’  I didn’t believe that anything could be worse than non-existence.  But when I contemplated the rest of my life without you, knowing that I could have somehow prevented your death but failed, I understood.  I knew that the plan might not succeed, that even if I survived the fall, Moriarty’s men would put all their efforts into killing me, but I went forward with it because the alternative was unacceptable.”

John looked into Sherlock’s panicked face for a long moment. A small part of him was still angry with Sherlock.  The rest of him was overwhelmed with gratitude at the lengths Sherlock had gone to protect him and unbelievably joyful that his friend was alive and well. _(Is he really afraid that I don’t want to be his friend anymore?_   _For someone so brilliant, he can be a right idiot sometimes.)_

He carefully wrapped his right arm around his friend’s torso and whispered, “Sherlock, you really are a good man.  Don’t let anybody tell you otherwise.”

Sherlock awkwardly rested his arm on John’s shoulders and murmured, “So we’re still friends?”

“Of course,” John breathed.  

Sherlock uttered a barely audible, “Thank you.”

Neither man noticed Mycroft just outside the doorway, watching over them like a father might watch over his sleeping children.  Silently, Mycroft closed the door and sauntered down the hall twirling his umbrella.  


	18. Home and Dry

Mrs. Hudson was in a tizzy.  Just six months ago, she’d had to bury one of her boys and now the other was in hospital with a bullet wound!  She was glad to hear that it hadn’t been too serious; losing Sherlock had been hard enough. She called out to John as she fluttered into his room.  There he was, battered and bandaged, but still smiling.  And sitting next to him was… no, it couldn’t be!

She gasped, “Sherlock?”

Sherlock beamed and said, “Mrs. Hudson! I’ve missed you!”

A gray mist clouded the old lady’s vision and then everything faded to black.  When she awoke a moment later, Sherlock had placed her in the chair and he was kneeling in front of her as John looked on from the bed, legs dangling over the side.

“Sherlock, is it really you?”

“Yes.  I’m so sorry, Mrs. Hudson, I hadn’t intended to give you such a fright,” Sherlock said, stroking her hand.

_(That’s twice in one day he’s apologized for something and meant it. Death softened him up a bit.)_   John said, “Are you all right? Should we call a doctor?”

Sherlock looked at him askance.  “You stopped being a doctor?”

John rolled his eyes.  “I can’t take care of her when I’m connected to a morphine pump, you daft git!”

Mrs. Hudson smiled.  She had dearly missed the sound of her boys bickering.  “I’m fine, John.  I just had a bit of a scare.  And Sherlock Holmes, if you were my son I’d have a right mind to slap you!  Making us all think you were dead!  Do you know what you did to John and me?  If you ever do anything like that again, you’ll wish you were never born!”

“I assure you, Mrs. Hudson, one fake death is enough for a lifetime,” he said, kissing her hand.  “If you’re too angry to have me return to Baker Street…”

“Don’t be silly, Sherlock,” she said, stroking his cheek.  “I can’t bear the thought of you leaving me again.  When will you come back?”

“As soon as John is released from the hospital.”

True to his word, Sherlock didn’t leave John’s side until he was discharged from the hospital the next afternoon.  By then, the media knew of Sherlock’s return and were crowded around the hospital’s entrances trying to get photos of John and Sherlock.  John’s colleagues helpfully sneaked them out through the morgue.  When they arrived at 221B, Mrs. Hudson was waiting for them and the smell of scones filled the flat.

“Oh boys, it’s so lovely to see you together again!  Sit down John!  You must be tired! Now Sherlock, I want to hear about everything that happened to you while you were away.”

Sherlock fidgeted uncomfortably.   _(Telling her about everyone I’ve killed over the last six months is probably what John would call “a bit not good.”)_

Mrs. Hudson said, “Not up for talking?  Well, at least tell me about the hair!  You look so different with it short!”

Sherlock gave a disgusted grunt and scrubbed his fingertips over his scalp.  “Hateful, isn’t it?  I cut it so that it would be more difficult for Moriarty’s men to recognize me – an unnecessary precaution, since they were all idiots.  At the typical rate of human hair growth, it will take two and half months for it to return to its former state!”

Sherlock stewed for a moment, and then John spoke.  “Since we’re on the subject of fashion, I have an article of your clothing.”

John went upstairs and returned with Sherlock’s coat draped over his arm.  Handing it to Sherlock, he said, “Mycroft sent it to me a few weeks after you jumped.”

Sherlock looked like a child on Christmas morning.  He stood up, threw the coat on, and spun about. “God, how I’ve missed this!  The other coat was so pedestrian!  But tell me John… why does my coat smell of your deodorant?”

John flushed, then folded his arms, gazed up at Sherlock defiantly, and said, “Probably the same reason that your current disguise is an exact copy of my favourite jumper.”

* * *

The following Saturday was a quiet one at 221B.  John sat in his armchair reading and every few minutes, he’d look up at Sherlock using his laptop in the opposite armchair.  He had to fight the urge to touch Sherlock and ensure that he was real.

There was a knock at the door and both of them turned to see Mycroft.  “Sherlock, I hate to interrupt, but John and I have some things to discuss.  Alone.”

“You’re kicking me out of my own living room?” Sherlock protested.

“Do not worry, dear brother, I shall only be a few minutes and then you may have him to yourself again.”

“It’s all right, Sherlock.  I have some questions for Mycroft,” John said, staring pointedly at the elder Holmes.

“I’ll be downstairs with Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock said, shooting a threatening look at his brother.

Mycroft sat down in the chair vacated by the detective.  Before he could speak, John began interrogating him.  “You knew about Sherlock the entire time.  You saw how miserable I was.  Why didn’t you bloody tell me?”

Spinning his umbrella, the posh man replied, “John, while you are a superb doctor, your acting skills leave much to be desired.  Had you known that Sherlock was alive, you would not have been able to hide that fact from anyone – least of all Moran, who would have slain you instantly.”

John gave a military nod. _(Need-to-know basis and I didn’t need to know.)_   “Fine.  You knew about Mary from the first, didn’t you?”

“No.  I only _suspected_ her from the first.  I thought it too convenient that the person who could be the key to clearing Sherlock’s name would also be an attractive female who immediately took a romantic interest in you.  It took me some time to confirm my suspicions, and when I did I felt it best to apprise you.”

“The file,” the doctor nodded again, thinking back to the row they’d had.  “I never read it.”

“I knew you would not, but I would have been remiss if I had not provided it.”

John cocked his head.  “So you knew she was dangerous, and when I kept seeing her, you did nothing?”

Mycroft sighed.  “Being an elder brother requires a delicate balance between protecting one’s younger brother and allowing him to learn from his mistakes. We may think we are assisting the younger ones by meddling in their affairs, but sometimes we do more harm than good.  I feared that by forcing the issue of Miss Morstan, I would merely have pushed you closer to her and thus into Moran’s clutches.  Rather than continue to rail against her and endanger you and everything we had worked for, I chose to remain silent.  I did, however, increase your surveillance so that if you were ever in danger, rescue was a mere text away.”

Noticing the doctor’s wide eyes, Mycroft continued, “I assure you there were no cameras in your bedroom.”

John thought for a moment.  He remembered all the times he’d thought he was helping Harry, all the times he’d covered up for her, been her designated driver, and given her money, and the time he realized that the only way to truly help her was to allow her to suffer the consequences of her actions.  He grudgingly admitted that he understood Mycroft’s point of view.

“I bloody hate it when you’re right,” he groused.  “For your sake, I hope I find all the cameras in the flat before Sherlock does.”

“Not to worry. I had them all removed while you were in hospital,” the diplomat said with a smarmy smile.

“Good.  One more question: you arranged for the Yard to be at the warehouse that morning.  Did your plan include saving Mary?”

Mycroft looked John in the eye and said, “Only if she had desired it.”

* * *

In early January, John visited the cemetery.  He started for Sherlock’s grave out of habit, and then turned to the left, remembering that he was there to see Mary.  He stood silently for a moment, collecting his thoughts.

“I didn’t want to come here.  But Ella – that’s my therapist – convinced me that I needed to get this out, and talking to a headstone helped me once before, so maybe it’ll help now.”

Taking a deep breath, he continued.  “I hate you, Mary.  I’m so bloody _furious_ that I can barely see straight and I wish you were still alive so that you could hear it!  I’m not the sort of man who beats his girlfriends, but I think I’d be justified in making an exception in your case.”

John rubbed the bridge of his nose.  “You have no idea what you’ve done to me.  After Sherlock jumped, I thought I could never be happy again.  And then I met you and I was over the moon.  I was so alone and I thought you helped me so much.  And then… you threw everything we had away.  Did I mean _anything_ to you?  Was I just a tool to save your daddy’s reputation?”

“During my second tour, my best mate was killed in Afghanistan.” John shuddered at the memory. “I forgave the man who killed him. I didn’t want to, but I knew that spending your life hating one person is an excellent way to go insane. I don’t really want to forgive you either, but I’ll bloody go insane if I don’t.”

After a long pause, John said, “Someday.”

When John returned from the cemetery, he found Sherlock in his Belstaff, turning up the collar.  “Going out?”

The detective threw his hands in the air and shouted triumphantly,  “A case!  Lestrade thinks we’ve a serial killer on our hands!  It’s Christmas all over again!  Come along, John!” 

Sherlock dashed out the door, coattail flying and the doctor dogging his heels.  Later on, John would think of that moment as the second time he’d begun a friendship with Sherlock Holmes.

 


End file.
